


Boy with the Broken Halo

by Painless_papercuts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Kid Fic, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Teenlock, Wingfic, alternative universe - wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Painless_papercuts/pseuds/Painless_papercuts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock meet at school when they are five years old. Sherlock, unsurprisingly, turns out to be more than meets the eye. This story tracks the roles they play in each others' lives as they grow up together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from 'Sinister Kid' by The Black Keys.
> 
> I haven't written anything resembling a story for about five years, so I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.
> 
> This is unbetaed (because I have no friends), so if any kind soul would like to point out any ways to make this better, please don't hesitate.
> 
> Sherlock BBC and the ACD Sherlock Holmes do not and will never belong to me, regrettably.
> 
> Erm... Enjoy?

John feels sorry for the new boy standing at the front of the class, partly because he can clearly remember himself doing the exact same thing just a few months ago, and partly because the boy has a funny name. Sherlock. That name's not even in the book of baby names, and John knows this because he read it cover to cover helping Mama choose Harry's name before Harry was even _alive_.  
John is still new himself and hasn't made very many friends, so he has a spare seat next to him which this Sherlock slides into. He’s an odd looking one, John thinks, as he tries to get a good look at Sherlock without being obvious. It looks like Sherlock’s mummy doesn’t try to brush his hair, as it sticks out in dark tufts-

 

‘Mummy does brush it for me, actually.’

‘Wh-'

‘But I mess it up when she’s done. It makes me look like pirate when it’s messy.’

He turns to face John and stares at him.

‘Why are you trying to hide that you’re staring?’

‘It’s rude to stare.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes! Have your mummy and daddy not told you so?’

‘Maybe, but I’ve probably rubbed it out of my mind.’

 

John has no idea what the boy means when he says this, but he likes Sherlock. He has a funny name and John likes his hair, and he looks really clever, if a bit serious. There’s nothing for it. John offers out his hand towards Sherlock,

‘My name is John Hamish Watson, I am five years old and sixteen days. Would you like to be my friend?’

 

Sherlock stares at John’s outstretched hand for a few seconds, confused, before tentatively taking John’s hand in his own.

‘Yes.’

 

John shakes their hands so hard Sherlock thinks his arm will fall off.

 

/////

 

They spend lessons, lunch and break times together, always. They share crayons, but Sherlock only uses black and white and grey ones; he says colourful drawings are childish. John disagrees, because there are lots of pretty paintings, like that one of the sunflowers, which have colour in it. He had tried to explain this to Sherlock, but only got a you-are-being-silly-John stare in return. At break times, they can be found on the steps round the side of the school, as Sherlock climbs the railings searching the seven seas for ships and wenches to capture, with John sat below him on the deck, steering the ship and manning the cannons, in case a kraken rises out of the stormy sea to eat them. When they’re not doing that, they’re huddled close together looking at pictures in an anatomy book that Sherlock stole from his big brother Mycroft’s room.

 

‘So all of this is inside you? It’s all red and yellow and yucky.’

‘Yes.’

‘But I don’t look like that on the outside.’

‘That’s because you have skin that stops your insides from getting dirty.’

‘Do you think we could see if we look like the pictures. Do you think it would hurt?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock thinks for a bit, 'and yes.'

‘M, more than falling over?’

 

Later that day, Mrs Holmes and Mr Watson are called in to the head office, as the dinner lady had found Sherlock and John in the canteen together. Sherlock had been trying to dissect John’s arm with plastic cutlery.

 

/////

 

John had to stay off school for a few days because of chicken pox, and when he came back feeling a bit less itchy, he found a painting of a person on the seat of his chair. Sherlock is sitting in his seat, swinging his legs as he chunters on about something. John picks up the painting and sees that it’s of a boy with yellow hair and blue eyes.

 

‘Sherlock... Sherlock, Sh’lock?’

‘Yes what?’

‘Is this me?’

 

‘Yes, I painted it while you were poorly so I could pretend you were here and then I wouldn’t miss you so much.’ Sherlock’s cheeks go a little bit pink while he says that, and he quickly looks away from John and stares at hard at the pencil case on his desk.

John can't describe what he feels; it's like his heart is being pumped up like a balloon, but in a good way. The painting even looks like John. He pulls Sherlock into a big hug and holds him really tight to tell him without speaking how much he likes Sherlock, and swears he feels Sherlock's back move under his hands.

  
'Stop wriggling!'

'I'm not wriggling.'

'Then why is your back moving?'

  
Sherlock goes all still and pulls away from John. He takes forever to reply, and looks at his feet when he does.

  
'It's a secret. Mummy says I can't tell you.'

'Then why are you telling me it's a secret?'

  
Sherlock looks at John like he's a bug under a magnifying glass, his hands clenching and un-clenching.

  
'I... Don't know.' He looks like he was upset about not knowing. John can sympathise, as he feels like that all the time. 

 

/////

 

Sherlock doesn’t come into school for a few days after and John begins to worry that he had upset Sherlock. Mama tries to reassure him that Sherlock’s probably ill, that perhaps he’s got the chicken pox that John had had? John doesn’t think so; Sherlock would only get ill with a proper disease like cholera or rabies or another one from Mycroft’s books. At school, John’s other friend, Molly, asks John if he’s feeling okay and John says yes, he’s fine, even though he’s not fine because Sherlock’s not there and that hurts John in a way that isn’t fall over hurt; it’s a hurt that’s inside of him in his chest and behind his eyes. John cries himself to sleep that night, mainly because he thinks that Sherlock has decided that he doesn’t want to be friends with John anymore and has gone to another school. There is also a little part of him that worries that Sherlock might have died of cholera.

 

/////

  
  
When Sherlock comes back to school, he is definitely different. Sherlock doesn’t usually talk a lot, but now John is sure that he talks _even_ less than he did. He doesn’t correct John’s wrong answers in Maths, or tell Mrs Bailey that her husband has lots of friends that are ladies; he just sits there, wearing a smile that John knows is false, and listens to John talk about how he went to the zoo on Saturday with Auntie Julia and how he saw all the monkeys and the parrots and the _really_ tall giraffes with their knobbly knees (like Sherlock’s) and their long necks (not like Sherlock’s) and how he drew the lions for Sherlock. John holds out his drawing to Sherlock with pride puffing up his chest.

 

‘Take it. It’s for you.’

 

Sherlock takes it from John, but doesn’t look at it very hard like he usually does. John starts to get really really worried, when Sherlock looks shyly from underneath his inky curls at John, and asks,

‘Would you like to come to my house and play after school?’

 

John’s huge grin tells of both his relief at Sherlock’s return and his massive love for this mop-haired boy, or as John calls him, his best friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock keeps his secret, but not for John.

John goes to Sherlock’s house to play that afternoon after last minute phone calls between Mama Watson and Mummy Holmes. Sherlock’s house is _huge_ , John thinks as he walks in through the front door. In John’s home, he barely has room to dump his bags and shoes in the hallway whereas here, John could bring all of his shoes with him and there would still be room for more. There is a big staircase with a shiny wooden banister, and paintings of people from long ago on the walls. The floor looks the same as John’s, but when John reaches down to touch it, the pieces of wood are real, not printed onto the floor like in John’s home.

 

John chases Sherlock around the endless corridors, into rooms with furniture covered by dust sheets and endless broom cupboards, in haphazard tour of the house. They tumble outside onto endless lawns (and a rockery, which neither John nor Sherlock see the point of) and an apple orchard where chickens peck and scratch for rotting apples. Sherlock shows John the stable, which takes longer than Sherlock anticipated because John’s never seen real horses before and spends a considerable amount of time just standing and staring at them, feeling in equal parts shock at how big and loud they are, and wonder that Sherlock has these animals in his back garden, just _there_ , to ride whenever he wants. Sherlock promises John that next time he comes round he can ride Sherlock’s little black pony, Bucephalus.

 

Sherlock’s Mummy calls Sherlock and John back into the house for dinner, which John thought was perfect timing because he was starving and knew that if he got any more grass stains on his shorts, Mama would get cross and shout at John. Mama’s always cross at John these days, but John knows it’s because she isn’t getting enough sleep, as Harry is always keeping her up in the night (John knows this because he gets really grumpy and upset when he doesn’t get enough sleep), although why Dad doesn’t help Mama out is a mystery to John.

 

John stares at the sandwiches on the shiny white plate in front of him, not quite able to work out what he’s seeing. Sherlock pays no attention to him as he wolfs his down.

 

‘Is everything alright, John?’ Mrs Holmes enquires as John tentatively lifts one triangle from his plate.

 

‘Mrs Holmes, are you sure these are sandwiches?’

 

‘Quite sure, my dear.’

 

‘But... why is the bread white? And why aren’t there any crusts?’

 

Mrs Holmes laughs gently and ruffles John’s hair as she says, ‘Try them, I promise they won’t hurt you.’

 

John tries them and agrees that they indeed yummy, so he doesn’t complain as he tucks into the rest of the plate.

 

/////

 

After dinner, they both go up to Sherlock’s room and Sherlock shows John the tank of tadpoles that he is hiding from Mycroft. Sherlock says that they will grow up into frogs then they can put them in Mycroft’s bed; they both laugh raucously at the thought of Mycroft’s reaction, and they agree to get a camera to take pictures of it all.

 

There is a slightly awkward silence in which Sherlock wiggles his toes and looks like he wants to say something.

 

‘... John. There’s something I want to show you. I, I ... I haven’t shown anyone it before, not to any of my friends at least. It’s a really, _really_ big secret.’ He starts to take off his t-shirt, and John is reminded vaguely of a video he caught Dad watching late at night once when John couldn’t sleep.

 

‘Is it a bigger secret than the tadpoles?’

 

Sherlock nods as he takes off his top and turns to face away from John, and shows John his wings.

 

/////

 

They look to him like baby ducks' wings, but John’s never seen those up close. And ducks' wings are never black. Crows' wings are black, but Sherlock's wings didn't look like a crow's. Sherlock's are small and fluffy and stick out a bit from his back; they are trembling slightly, and Sherlock looks torn between wanting to hide them under his skin and make John forget about it all, and wanting John to accept what he’s seeing, that his eyes are telling the truth, that they can still be best friends even if Sherlock looks like one of those winged babies in paintings. Maybe John will paint him in tomorrow’s art lesson.

John wants to know what they feel like, so he carefully reaches out his hand towards them, stopping to see if Sherlock would say anything. Sherlock just stares at him with wide colourful eyes (John can't tell what colour they are; he thinks they are the colour of a sad rainbow. He will grow up still not knowing their definitive colour), flickering between John's pudgy hand hovering above a wing and John's open and wary face.

John isn't afraid, well he certainly didn't feel afraid, but all the same he felt scared, worried that he might hurt Sherlock. If he hurt Sherlock, John might upset him, and then they probably wouldn't be friends anymore. John didn't want that - he likes Sherlock lots and lots, loads even, and when John imagined them not being friends, his heart goes all squeezy and his eyes prickle. No, they had to be best friends for ever.

 

'You won't hurt me John. We can still be friends even if you do.'

 

And from that day on, John swore on his hamster's life that Sherlock could read his thoughts.

 

/////

 

They felt like clouds, John thought. But clouds aren't black, at least not happy clouds.

 

'Are you sad?' John asks. Sherlock gives him the you-are-being-silly-John look.

'No.'

'Then why are your wings black?'

'Mummy says it's so I can fly at night and not be seen.'

‘Oh, like a bat?’

‘Yes, but bat’s don’t have feathers, John, they have skin that is stretched over their bones.’

‘... But can you fly?'

‘No, not yet. But I will soon. Mycroft is going to show me how once they've grown a bit.'

‘So your Mama and Mycroft know too?’

 

Sherlock scoffs, ‘Of course they do, don’t be silly John. Mycroft’s got wings too, but his are a lot bigger than mine.’ He thinks for a while. ‘And they’re brown, well, they look like mud really.’ They snicker a bit at that, and Sherlock wriggles a bit when John scrunches his hand into the fluff.

 

'Stop wriggling!'

'I can't help it, it...' Sherlock looks at John shyly, 'it tickles.'

 

John just grins at Sherlock mischievously and wiggles his fingers around in Sherlock’s feathers, making them stick out all in the wrong direction like Sherlock had feather dusters flapping out behind him. Sherlock, the most serious person John has ever known (and John’s five now, so he knows a _lot_ of people now), collapses into giggles. John soon follows him, and they spend the rest of the afternoon echoing sounds of laughter throughout the otherwise solemn house.

 

////

 

As John leaves to go home, Sherlock gives him a really squeezy hug and holds on for ages and ages. Sherlock hardly ever gives hugs, so John tenses until Sherlock whispers in John’s ear,

 

‘You have to promise that you won’t tell anybody about my wings. No one. Ever. Please?’

 

John nods and hugs Sherlock back even tighter. He won’t tell anyone, he promises. Not even Harry. Not even his goldfish, Trevor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd be really grateful if you could let me know what you think of it so far/any suggestions you might have.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insert succinct and witty summary here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still can't over the fact that people are actually reading this.
> 
> Please let me know what you think/if anything needs changing/any suggestions.
> 
> Oh, John and Sherlock are supposed to between about 12 years old here (yeah, that's a big jump from the previous chapter, but meh).

‘Hold still!’ John grunts as he battles with the combination of warm washing-up-liquidy water and a _very_ muddy Sherlock.

‘I’m trying.’ Sherlock complains irritably.

Since that first visit to Sherlock’s house when they were five, they had more often than not spent most afternoons and weekends at one or the other’s house, unless John has to go and visit Great-Aunt Rose in Lyme Regis (John wasn’t sure why they still visit her – she never remembers who they are and Polly, Rose’s aging partly-bald parrot, shouts Cornish swear words at them), or if Sherlock has to go with Mycroft to a ‘private event’. Sherlock says they’re always _really_ boring, with loads of old posh people looking down their noses at him. That’s all he’s allowed to say about them, though.

Either way, this weekend John had gone over to Sherlock’s place for the whole of Saturday, and as soon as Mrs Watson had driven out of the gates, Sherlock would change into a top which they had cut holes in so he could stick his wings out the back, and they’d set off running across the perfectly striped lawn down to the orchard. John would always run behind Sherlock, partly because he always seems to know where he’s going, and partly because he secretly enjoys it when Sherlock leaps over the ha-ha his wings flare out slightly, the light glinting off the inky feathers, as he stays in the air just those few seconds too long. John could be all sentimental about all this, but Sherlock would call him an idiot, so he keeps it to himself. Soon, they were climbing the apple trees like there was no tomorrow, each time finding a taller one to climb with thinner branches to balance on. John fancies himself a better climber than Sherlock because he’s more compact and less lanky, but Sherlock has the better balance by far (probably because he’s got an extra pair of limbs to help him).

Until today. Today, mr-I’m-so-clever-I-don’t-need-to-look-where-I’m-stepping Sherlock look-john-look-at-me Holmes sat on a branch just that bit too thin, and with a heart-stopping crack, found himself face first in a pool of mud directly under the branch he had been prancing about on.

So here John finds himself, over the kitchen sink, in the ridiculous situation that is trying to wash mud off Sherlock’s feathers. He’d googled ‘how to clean feathers’ and, having decided against using the recommended bleach, was forcing Sherlock over the sink trying to squirt washing-up liquid onto the feathers. Needless to say, they were failing miserably.

With muddy water all over the floor John sighs as he peels off the oversized marigolds he’d been wearing and smirks at Sherlock.

‘Right, there’s only one thing for it.’

‘What?’

‘Work it out yourself, if you’re so clever.’

Sherlock stares hard at John, eyes boring into him as he thinks _ever_ so hard, until,

‘Oh no. John, please no,’ John chuckles in the deepest voice he can manage as Sherlock’s eyes widen with dread, ‘not the shower.’

/////

John tries desperately to coax Sherlock into the shower, but it is all in vain. Mud is smeared on the walls in great swipes and somehow has managed to reach the ceiling. John shudders to think what Mrs Holmes will say when she comes back from her gardening class to find filthy children struggling in an even filthier bathroom, and promptly gives up on being nice and polite in his attempts. Time for a taste of his own medicine. Sherlock is thoroughly surprised when John gives him a hard shove into the shower and shuts the door on him. He stands there, fully clothed, letting the hot water saturate his feathers and stick his hair to his head in black tendrils, trying to give off an air of abject misery. He is sure it would have worked, but the condensation was preventing John from getting the full sad-puppy eyes effect.

/////

Needless to say, John manages to get the bathroom nearly spotless again, and Sherlock clean and vaguely presentable (wings dried with the aid of a hairdryer) before Mrs Holmes gets home. The hairdryer had made Sherlock’s hair and feathers fluff up, making him look like a black duckling, only with a glare that could kill. John had since built up immunity to those.

John folds his arms and looks at Sherlock, eyes glinting, cocking an eyebrow in an expression learnt from his father,

‘What would you do without me, eh?’


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Puberty is shit, but you don't need John and Sherlock to tell you that. John helps keep it all under wraps, quite literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating has been increased to Mature, if not for now then for later chapters (perhaps).
> 
> John and Sherlock are around 14-15 years old here.
> 
> Did I mention that I do not, have not, and will never claim that the Sherlock and ACD canon world belongs to me in any way?

John and Sherlock’s PSHE teacher had told their class before the summer holidays that puberty was like a roller coaster – full of ups and downs. John thinks that this is a load of balls and personally thinks that it’s more like a handcart to Hell – once you’re on it, there isn’t anything you can do about it so you better just hold on tight and hope for the best.  John can’t complain too much; he grows six inches over the summer holidays from very small to under average, his voice drops without too many embarrassing hitches along the way and while Miss Jones becomes a regular visitor to his dreams, he doesn’t worry about it _too_ much.

The same can’t be said for Sherlock. John is pretty sure that he can actually see his friend growing at a rate of knots, and John can tell that the transition from child to teenager is going to be painful. Soon, John has to tilt his head upwards just to look at Sherlock, making it even more difficult to give him evils.  Sherlock’s voice is a spectacular roller coaster in itself, rising to brave new heights before plunging down and down, before settling at a depth that would make girls melt at the knees if not for the acerbic words and cutting remarks that were bitten out by it.

What is most noticeable, though, are Sherlock’s wings. John used to be able to describe them as little black feather dusters, but now he can only describe them as wings. Proper wings, wings used for flight. The soft inky down has been replaced by strong dark primaries and secondaries that reflect the sun like petrol on water, with smaller ones crowning the flight feathers. They’re massive too, measuring nearly six feet in length each when fully extended.  Sherlock’s back has gained a not inconsiderable amount of muscle recently, particularly around where the wings merge into his skin, and John guesses that it’s all just to hold them in place. John wants to know what it feels like to run his fingers through them, to hold one in his hand, to feel them brush against his skin, but Sherlock won’t allow him more than brief touches. When John asks him if they’re still ticklish, Sherlock mumbles something about it being too intense a feeling, and looks away to hide the not-so-subtle flush creeping up his neck.

It is clear that Sherlock won’t be able to go back to school without covering up his wings in some way or another, and it is this exact problem that John and Sherlock try and find a solution to.

John nicks a couple of shoulder and back strap supports from his rugby club for Sherlock to try on. They manage to shove the top half of his wings under them, but most of the length refuses to fit in, leaving them sticking out in a completely not conspicuous explosion of black feathers halfway down his back.

‘I guess you could say that you’ve got, I don’t know, _chronic back_ and _shoulder pain_ ,’ John ventures. He wracks his brains for a bit, then adds, ‘or scoliosis.’

Sherlock snorts derisively, ‘John, don’t be an idiot. People would notice if I suddenly developed scoliosis over the holidays.’

‘Well I’m _sorry_ , I’m just trying to help.’ John snaps as he storms out of Sherlock’s room. He almost doesn’t hear Sherlock murmur, ‘I know you are.’

/////

They try everything, from shoulder straps to full back support intended for people with spinal injuries and slipped discs – these work the best except that, because they’re designed to restrict movement, Sherlock can’t actually bend over while wearing them. That £250 piece of failure goes onto eBay the very next day. John even resorts to putting the leather-working skills his uncle taught him into good use to make a sort of leather strap-harness-thing, complete with buckles and extra holes for adjustments. But John put all the buckles in the wrong places and the leather’s too thick and the whole thing becomes very obvious and very uncomfortable (apparently) when worn underneath a school shirt. They try compression vests, but again Sherlock found faults with it that John couldn’t understand. But then again, he’s not the one having to wear it, so he guesses he can’t complain.

John spends every day at Sherlock’s for a whole fortnight, trying to figure this problem out. So far, nothing had worked, and the mood in the house is despondent and uncomfortable. With Mrs Holmes often out socialising or learning how to prune her buddleias, and Mr Holmes never there in the first place, it’s often just John and Sherlock alone in the house. By the end of the two weeks, snarky remarks and catty comments are flung around and parried, halting any progress they may have made. John takes to wandering the grounds to try and clear his head, and spends a good hour with Bucephalus (who’s now a bit long in the tooth and is on box-rest having recovered from laminitis) talking to him about his problems. As he’s moaning about how unhelpful Sherlock is being in all this, his eyes wander down to the wide bandages Bucephalus has wrapped around his cannons. Everything falls into place; if this is what enlightenment feels like, John thinks as he runs back to the house with arms full of bandages, then the Buddha must be one lucky guy.

/////

It takes the rest of the day for them to work out the best way of wrapping Sherlock’s wings tight to his body, but eventually they get it so that they’re pressed flat against his back, completely covered. John could weep with relief that they’ve finally found a solution (and that he can finally get on with the many essays he had been set over the holidays). John pulls Sherlock into a hug, disregarding Sherlock’s new-found awkwardness, and while the lanky kid slowly gives in and squeezes John tight, there isn't so much as a twitch from Sherlock’s back.

After John leaves, it takes Sherlock several hours before he can wrap his wings up as well as John does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> PSHE stands for Physical, Social and Health Education. It's basically Sex-Ed along with other things, but for students in the UK.
> 
> The bandages I had in mind were like these http://www.rideaway.co.uk/shires-cohesive-bandages but I imagine them to be white.
> 
> Laminitis is a disease that horses (particularly ponies) get from eating too much rich grass. While bandaging wouldn't do much in the way of treating it, I needed a reason for poor Bucephalus to stay inside.
> 
> Again, any comments/criticisms/love/perhaps not hate, will all be welcomed with open arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revising for exams is almost as hard as maintaining a platonic relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I apologise enough for being so shitty with my updates? No, I can't.  
> Basicles, these past two months I've been revising for, and sitting, the biggest exams of my life so far. They determine whether or not I go to university next year, so goddamit they were important and things like updating this fic and having a life outside of revision fell by the wayside.  
> BUT my exams are now over *woop* and so I have copious amounts of spare time to do all the things I haven't been able to do recently.
> 
> tl:dr - I'm sorry, thanks for sticking with me <3
> 
> John and Sherlock are around 17 here.
> 
> NB - I know AS levels are due to be changed at some point, but effort to explain it

‘You never told me you could fly!’

‘Yes I did.’

‘When!?’

‘Yesterday.’

John laughs once, exasperated. ‘Sherlock, I was at Murrayfield yesterday watching the rugby. In Scotland.’

Sherlock harrumphs and stares out the window, muttering something unintelligible.

‘What was that?’

‘I _said_ , it’s not my fault you weren’t listening.’

John’s tired, knackered even, and more than slightly pissed off, but he can’t help it when a smile tugs at his lips. Only Sherlock would not even realise John was gone; John’s not sure whether take it as a compliment, be insulted, or just accept that this was probably going to be a regular occurrence ever since puberty transformed Sherlock into a massive wanker. He sighs and stares at nothing for a while.

‘Well, then...’

Sherlock fixes him with a blank look. ‘Well, what?’

John gestures hesitantly towards Sherlock’s wings as they frame him from shoulder to thigh. ‘Are you going to show me or not?’

‘Show you what?’

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about you obtuse git, and don’t even try to deny it. You _flying_ ’, he makes little flapping gestures, ‘I want to _see you fly_... Please.’ He adds cautiously.

‘Irrelevant-‘

‘-No, Sherlock, not irrelevant. Actually very relevant, seeing as I’m the only one outside of the Holmes gene pool that knows the first thing about any of this. I may have helped you considerably with all this over the time that we’ve known each other. It may also be because we’re good friends, Sherlock.’ John swallows past the sudden lump in his throat, ‘You’re my best friend, and for all the times that you insult my intelligence and ignore me, I care about you.’

Sherlock wrinkles his nose slightly. ‘Ugh, sentiment.’

While John doesn’t see red at this belittling, he sees damn near crimson.

‘You’re such a little-‘ and with that, Sherlock falls out of the open window.

 

_Fuck_.

 

John sprints to the window and leans out, only to find Sherlock hovering several metres below, grinning up mischievously up at him with his great black wings whipping up the air around them as he hovers in the air

John watches in stunned silence as, with a few great beats of his wings, Sherlock pulls himself up and away from the house and over the expanse of the lawns in front of his bloody enormous house. He circles up and up before diving into the orchard, as John watches with his laughing heart in his throat. Watching his friend swoop, unrestrained and free, with his inky feathers warming and gleaming like sleek raven’s wings under a rare summer sun, John feels a pang of sorrow within his elation. That there will be many things that Sherlock won’t be able to do because of his wings. But this feeling is smothered by the pride that he feels in his friend, that he and only he is privy to such a wonderful sight; that only he, out of the whole world, is able to see how much joy Sherlock takes in being so free.

Sherlock slows his air-athletics as he makes his way back towards the house, coming to a gliding stop just outside the window and stays there, grinning a little breathlessly from his airborne romp as he waits for a response, his wings still gently beating, keeping him at eye level with John. His eyes glint with excitement and adrenalin.

John grins back at him,

‘I could kill you for scaring me like that, you melodramatic dick.’ He picks a leaf out of Sherlock’s dark hair.

‘That would be tremendously ambitious of you, John.’

 

/////

 

John spends his Easter holiday revising for his AS levels in the summer in his own bedroom, rather than Sherlock’s, largely because Sherlock doesn’t revise. If John were the jealous kind, he would resent the fact that Sherlock can just _know_ what’s necessary for the top marks in the exams, and then promptly forget all the useless knowledge that comes attached to AS Level English Literature. John, on the other hand, for the past three years has had to spend weeks after tedious week slowly losing the will to live while developing a permanent crick in his neck from hunching over his desk. He usually comes out having managed above average grades but, for the next six months, has his head filled with how Shakespeare presents evil in ‘Macbeth’.

John tried revising at Sherlock’s about a week ago, but _tried_ being the operative word here. Sherlock had spent several hours composing the most god-awful violin solo, which John christened ‘Bored’, while John continued to figuratively sweat nucleophilic substitutions for the upcoming exam. Once ‘Bored’ had been well and truly massacred, his friend had then moved onto an ‘experiment’ of sorts in which he tested the strength and flexibility of his wing muscles, through various acrobatics and contortions that would make Houdini flinch. Stretching and bending them at angles that made John’s shoulders ache just looking at him, Sherlock would then launch himself into the air in an attempt at hovering, but each and every time he seemed to have ‘deleted’ all knowledge regarding the bedroom ceiling and so John frequently found plaster dust coming to give him a hand with his revision. Sherlock had apparently warned John of his intentions, but as far as John was concerned, if it wasn’t part of the AS Chemistry syllabus, he couldn’t care less, interpreting it as Sherlock basically seeing how hard he could whack John over the head with each, and sometimes both wings.

Despite trying his best to ignore the Greater Dickhead Albatross (a dying species, John had discovered) behind him, he began to anticipate the next blow by the soft air whispering words of caution. Timing it perfectly, he had spun around in his seat and grabbed the offending wing.

And the room stood still. John’s mouth went dry.

He couldn’t not feel that shiver that ran up Sherlock’s body as they stood there, staring, as their breath died in their throats. Sherlock was giving him a curious look, and John for all the world would have liked to have been anywhere else, if only to avoid the imminent harsh and splintering words that would no doubt damage their friendship irreparably. But none came.

John could feel the tension radiating off Sherlock’s body, and immediately became embarrassed about putting his friend in _such_ an awkward situation.

‘Erm, sorry, I’ll just-’ John released his grip from the feathers. His hand was suddenly clammy as he stared at it, refusing to let himself look anywhere else to preserve his dignity while his face grew hot and flustered.

‘Yes, well -’Sherlock took a step backward while folding his wings tightly behind him. They projected the emotions that Sherlock wasn’t able to; shuffling slightly, almost affronted, they press themselves into tense his back. Time to go, John.

John flexed his hands as he debated whether to run for the hills or run for the woods. Far, far away.

No.

He needed to sort this. He needs Sherlock as much as Sherlock needs him. John lifted his head and softly looked at Sherlock.

‘Are you ok?’ After a silent pause, Sherlock replied an almost imperceptible nod and the flicker of a shy smile, which spoke volumes to John. Relief. Relief of a friendship still intact.

‘I didn’t mean to- I didn’t- if... If I knew that it would do, you know,’ John spread his hands, ‘ _this,_ then I wouldn’t have. I’m sorry.’ He smiled apologetically.

‘It’s ok, John.’ Sherlock glanced at John before dropping his eyes to his bare feet again. ‘I don’t mind when it’s you who's doing it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* I also had a massive knock to the confidence regarding my writing abilities, so another reason for my lateness is that I spent about a month waiting for people to post negative comments about my writing.
> 
> Please let me know if this story is/isn't getting steadily worse
> 
> tl:dr part 2 - I am a ball of anxiety


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Males aren't always the best at communication, and a teenage mistake is a recipe for disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sings happily* I made it longerrr for you guys, as requested!

‘Johnny?’ Mum calls from downstairs, ‘I need to talk to you.’

Oh _God_ , John thinks, his stomach dropping. What has she found, what have I done, who have I killed? He treads gingerly down the stairs into the kitchen. His Mum is sitting at the kitchen table with her serious face on. A pile of leather straps and buckles lies in a bundle on the table, one of his and Sherlock’s less successful attempts to keep those vast wings strapped down and under control.

Shit shit shit shit, shit, _shit._ Oh God no, please don’t ask about them. John isn’t sure which would go better: making up a reason for having piles of leather in his bedroom, or telling his Mum that they were for strapping down wings which, hey, you know, just happened to be Sherlock’s. John doesn’t know what to do. His heart is hammering its way out of his chest. _Fight or Flight reaction, John,_ his A level Biology revision reminds him, which is really helpful right now.

‘Now John, I’m not going to tell you off’, _but...?_ , ‘but I just wanted to make sure that you’re being safe when you’re using these things.’ She pokes at one of the buckles, ‘You should really consider having equipment that is easier to escape from if need be.’

What? At least she’s not asking outright questions – John’s never been a good liar, so best to keep it simple. ‘I’m not following you, Mum...’

She sighs. ‘I’m just making sure that Sherlock is taking proper care of you. I mean, you should _at least_ have a safeword.’ Her words sink in with a startling clarity just as she starts going off about handcuffs.

Oh sweet _Jesus_. No. This could not be happening. There’s a shovel in the garage; John should go get it to dig himself a nice deep hole and curl up in it. Death would be preferable to this conversation. Oh god, no. He cannot be having this conversation, it’s not possible. He must be dreaming or, rather, a truly horrific nightmare. _Bondage_. The very word gives him the willies; John nearly giggles at the turn of phrase, which would be calamitous in his current predicament. But now John’s imagining it: the leather digging into his skin, pressing that spot just at the base of his spine, holding him in position as Sherlock appears over him, wings flaring out and a lascivious smirk playing at those lips as he reaches down, trailing those long fingers over John’s chest, over his stomach down further and-

‘Mum, I’m seventeen’, John squeaks, ears growing redder by the second. After a seconds pause he adds mulishly, ‘and I’m not gay!’

‘I know dear, but some people start experimenting quite early. You see, when I was your age-‘

‘Goodbye Mum!’ This cannot be happening. John grabs the offending item off the table and is out the front door before his face finds a deeper shade of red to turn.

 

/////

 

‘You have to keep these at your house.’

Sherlock glares at the straps of leather and buckles that John had brought from his house. ‘Why? We’ve made the final arrangement, I don’t need this’, he sweeps a hand dismissively, ‘harness.’

‘Yes, Sherlock, that’s precisely why you need to keep them. Harness, Sherlock. _Harness._ My Mum found them in my chest of drawers and now’, John pauses, wondering how he should phrase this, ‘now she thinks I’m into bondage.’ He swallows. ‘with... with you, Sherlock.’

Silence. John’s pulse hammers in his throat as he waits for a response. For a fleeting moment he wishes his friend was the sort of person that would dismiss the whole situation over with a good laugh and a mischievous wink and a cheesy pun. But that wouldn’t be the Sherlock he knows, and John predicts that he will either be ignored, or face the brunt of a caustic insult. This isn’t the sort of thing that Sherlock could ignore, unlike most of what comes out of John’s mouth. Oh god, he wishes he had never opened his mouth. He’s such an idiot sometimes, why does he even bother he may as well sow his mouth shut; it’d be less painful than dealing with the aftermath of his verbal diarrhoea.

Sherlock quirks a nonchalant eyebrow and huffs scornfully down his nose,

 ‘...That’s blatantly ridiculous,’ as he flounces onto his bed, the dramatic git. John would think that the accusation hasn’t ruffled his feathers, so to speak, except for the faint pink that colours his cheeks and the odd look in Sherlock’s eye that John can’t quite decipher. His wingtips twitch slightly, glinting softly in the afternoon sun and stirring up the dust motes that swirl in the light.

‘I know, Sherlock. I wasn’t trying to suggest that we were.’ John feels his ears growing warm. How the hell is he going to get out of this mess?’

 ‘Regardless, relationships are a waste of time. Distracting. Messy.’

‘Sherlock, I’m trying to-‘

‘Irrelevant. Do not-’

‘Sherlock, listen to me, you dick. We’re friends, yes?’ He waits silently, but gets no response. Panic blooms somewhere in his chest as his heart drums an even faster tattoo against his ribs. He has to try and salvage this.

‘Sherlock, listen-’ Sherlock turns to look at him, his face the embodiment of cold, contemptuous disdain. Something plummets inside John.

‘It would be better if you left, John. And on your way out, stop giving me orders and forcing your pathetic will on me. You may be lord of half the world, but you’ll not own me as well. I advise that you don’t come back uninvited. And take that redundant _thing_ with you; I have no need for it. Go on, then.’ His impenetrable eyes flicker towards the door before Sherlock turns his head fully away from John.

John fixes Sherlock with a hard look, but is suddenly made unwelcome by the cool silence that descends on the room. The carpet bristles under his feet and the pale walls bear down on him, pressing the air hard against his skin. John’s never felt so uncomfortable. He should never have come here in the first place, if he’d known that he’d received such a frosty reception. He sighs and reaches the truly astounding conclusion that the conversation, and possibly their friendship, has ended, so makes to leave Sherlock in peace. As he picks up his rucksack from the bedroom floor, he half-hears a quiet intake of breath, but ignores it in favour of getting the hell out of there.

 

/////

 

That evening, the only thing John is able to do is think back on the day’s events. He should have just binned the damn thing and be done with it. If he is,  _was,_  a proper friend, he would have known that Sherlock’s disinterest in all things a) vaguely sexual, and b) functionally useless, has been made clear many times in the past. John knows these things, should have _known_ these things. Instead, he went blundering in like a typical hormone-driven eighteen year-old, hoping to get a reaction out of Sherlock. Well, he certainly succeeded in that respect. Sherlock reacted so vehemently, John isn’t sure their friendship could recover from it. John wonders, deep down, if he had known Sherlock’s disinterest and had only brought it solely up to make Sherlock uncomfortable and put him on the spot. John pushes away that thought, even as the tears gathering in his eyes begged to say otherwise.

Needless to say, John takes himself to bed early with little in his stomach, and an emptiness in his heart.

 

/////

 

A soft tap against the window brings John out of his restless sleep. Bloody pigeons. With blurred thoughts, John curses that he should have asked the pest controller to shoot out the sky rats that nested above his bedroom. John covers his head with a pillow and tries to ignore it as the tapping continues to bores holes in the night, but he becomes aware, as it gets louder, that there’s a rhythm to it. He concentrates a bit harder.

.-.. . - / -- . / .. -. --..-- / .--- --- .... -.

He huffs a grim smile into his pillow and says quietly, ‘No.’

There’s only the faint roar of the M25 for several minutes, but John’s fully awake now, listening. Finally it comes,

.--. .-.. . .- ... .

With a twinge of guilt, John realises that the insufferable bastard isn’t going to go away until he lets him in. Kicking the duvet off of him with a small shiver from the loss, John wearily stands and goes to the window. John throws open the curtain to see the ridiculous excuse of a human being balancing precariously on the ledge outside his bedroom, wings flared out behind him, feathers bleached silver in the moonlight as they try to keep him from falling off. Wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms, Sherlock watches John’s reaction carefully, his breath flickering white against the window pane.

John sighs heavily and curses his own sympathy as he opens the window to let Sherlock in, hurrying him up as Sherlock lets all the warm air escape outside.

‘Sherlock, it’s the middle of the night. What the _hell_ are you doing here, and why the _hell_ are you trying to get in through the window.’

 ‘John-’

‘-And how exactly did you find yourself outside my bedroom window, on the _second floor_?’

‘I flew.’

‘Oh of course you-, what?’

Sherlock rolls his eyes, though not unkindly. ‘I flew, John. To your house. Like this.’ He spreads his wings wide and buffets the air around them, sending the papers on John’s desk fluttering to the floor.

‘You great-I do have a phone you know. You could just text me. On my phone. Instead of, you know, flapping around the suburbs half dressed in the,’ John leans and sticks his arm out the window, ‘well, _cold_ night.’

‘John, _listen to me._ ’ Sherlock looks at him, eyes flickering with something unknown. Nerves, perhaps. ‘I know I’m not good at explaining my emotions’, he breathes out a tense laugh, ‘even worse at understanding others’. But please let me try and explain to you... how I feel.’

John looks up into his eyes, trying to fathom what the flaming fuck Sherlock thinks he’s doing. If he thinks he can explain his recent behaviour, well good luck to him. Prick. Sherlock hesitates, shifting uneasily, his wings a restless silhouette behind him.

‘I don’t have friends-’ John breathes in shortly, wounded, ‘I never have. I don’t make myself easy to become friends with. I insult and intimidate, I’m too much for most people, and I’ve created a barrier that shuts me off.’ He takes a deep breath and looks around the room. ‘But there never has been a barrier with you, John. With you, it’s been... easy. I enjoy your company, relish it in fact, and my mind is much more ordered when I’m with you. I... I wouldn’t want to live a life without you in it. What I said earlier was a reflex reaction against what I was feeling, and you faced up to it alone. And for that I’m... well, I am-’

‘-spit it out Sherlock. Rip the plaster off and be done with it. I know how it pains you.’

Sherlock huffs a laugh, ‘Please forgive me, John.’

John’s guilty anger at the daft sod he calls a friend dissipates with those words. Relief seeps out of every pore as he feels his best friend coming back to him. He feels as if everything that has been in the air, all the tension and the despondent anger, has now settled back into place. He feels it morph into something else entirely when Sherlock gently, clumsily, takes John’s hand in his own. John’s heart flutters in his mouth as they both take deep breaths as Sherlock stares at their entwined fingers, as tentative and uncertain as John’s ever seen him before. His heart swells at the knowledge that he is able to see Sherlock like this, as open and vulnerable as any other person yet still so brilliant and utterly _Sherlock_.

Sherlock swallows audibly.

‘Relationships are... messy, and are a distraction from my studies. They require commitment, effort and cooperation...coordination even, which I have only been able to promise myself. I decided this several years ago, and promised myself that I would never become involved with any... _feelings_ of any sort.’ John finds himself really hoping that there’s going to be a ‘but’ soon, as this friendship has developed so far that it would be hopelessly awkward to return to what it was before all these careless, careful touches and odd happiness.

‘But,’ _there it is_ , ‘again I’ve found you to be an exception, John. If I were more romantically inclined, you would be the oasis to my desert, my relief. I treasure the relationship we currently have, and would find myself quite at a loss if we went separate ways, after everything we’ve done together, and the promise of a future with you is the simplest mystery I have yet to solve. And with you, I would like to try and take that next step. If, that is,’ Sherlock watches John openly for any resistance, ‘if you are amenable to it as well.’

John can only stand there are stare at Sherlock as he is overtaken by a surge of pure love for the man in front of him. There’s been friendship since the first day they met and affection followed soon after, as soon as John was able to recognise the feeling. And lately, the new and slightly different kind of love has been brewing under his skin. Something more potent, more consuming.

John stretches lightly onto his toes and places the ghost of a kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s nose, a whisper of his love toward the other. He rests his forehead against Sherlock’s, and there they stay for many minutes in comfortable, easy silence, standing in the middle of John’s bedroom, exchanging quiet breathes with closed eyes and soft smiles.

‘I’m offended that you thought I was a pigeon. I thought the Morse code would have made it obvious.’ Sherlock wrinkles his nose up in mock disgust, and John can’t help but giggle.

‘What was I supposed to think was knocking on my bedroom window? You impossible man.’

Still chuckling, John wraps Sherlock in a gentle hug, pressing a gentle kiss into Sherlock’s shoulder, curling his fingers into the soft feathers that cover the bridge where Sherlock’s wings meet his body and smiling to himself as his touch makes Sherlock’s whole body quiver slightly and rumble with satisfaction deep in his chest, as he tightens his hold on John.

John has no idea at what point the terms and conditions of their friendship changed, but he’s sure as hell not complaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... how far should I take this relationship, guys? Full on hot damn, or keep it nice and sweet? Let me know what you think.
> 
> I gather my sustenance from dew drops, 7% solution, and readers' comments - without them, I die, and we wouldn't want that now would we? Actually, don't answer that.
> 
> Oh yeah, for people who don't do Morse code (I don't either, but a certain generic multi-faceted online search engine came in very handy).  
> Basically, the first sequence translates as 'Let me in, John', and the second, because Sherlock stooped as low as this, was 'Please'. But it could be saying UMQRA for all I know...


End file.
